A Bench, a Flask, and the Ocean
by writeitdownfast
Summary: Some of Killian's thoughts during the night spent on the bench. Something tells me he didn't sleep much, and I started thinking what kind of emotional state he would have been in that night and then I gave myself emotions.


**I don't know. I had feelings so I wrote.**

In the stillness of the two AM dark, water lapped gently against the wooden posts of the dock. Despite the haze of rum, the memory of _her_ lips on his, and most of all, the nauseating anger at himself, there was still something within Killian that responded to the familiar sound of water against wood.

How many nights like this had he spent, sitting on the deck of his ship, flask in hand, trying to block out everything but that sound?

The flask was halfway empty when Killian set it down roughly against the table. He had been attempting to distract himself by learning the constellations of this new world, but his eyes were betraying him. They slipped in and out of focus, sometimes blinded by the starlight (or was it just the strange town lights reflected in the water?), sometimes the whole sky seeming to go dark, its constellations fading into shadowy pinpricks in the black.

Rising stiffly from his seat he pressed his knuckles against his eyes, ignoring his bruised left hand's protests. He didn't deserve to sleep tonight. Walking to the edge of the dock, he found a step and half-stumbled his way a little closer to the water. Clinging to the edge of the dock with one hand and reaching down to the water with the other, he cupped the dark liquid in his fingers and brought it up into his face. It was sharp, colder than he'd expected, and usually he would relish the sensation, but tonight the salty water reminded him too much of everything he thought he'd left behind.

Sitting back down on the bench, weariness pulling heavily against his shoulders, Killian reached back into the pocket of his new jeans. Clothes that he'd been so confident he'd earned the right to wear now felt like the uniform of a stranger. He almost wished for his long leather coat back. At least with that he could be sure exactly who – exactly _what_ he was.

_You're nothing but a pirate_.

Pulling his mobile phone out, he pushed the button Swan had shown him that turned it on and cringed at the brightness that assaulted him. When his eyes finally adjusted, he followed the only path he knew.

Contacts.

Emma Swan.

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek at the sweet familiarity of the photo. He knew the lines of her face better than he knew the tides. He loved that delightfully new lightness and peace in her smile, and the way her eyes were focused off to the side of the picture (where he had been standing beside her confused as to why she was smiling at a rectangular device held out at arm's length for no reason). Emma Swan. She'd always been so much _more_ than any one person had a right to be. Even now, through the stinging haze of the worst night he'd had in a long time, she soothed something in him, and set alight a hope and a protective instinct and a _love_ he hadn't thought he was still capable of.

_There, _she'd said, _now you'll know it's me calling you._

He was so completely lost to her.

Ever since he'd turned his ship around and pledged his services to help her find her boy – maybe even since he first barged through her stubborn wall of self-sufficiency and wrapped a cloth around her cut hand – all he'd wanted was to ensure her safety, her happiness.

But as he sat there on the bench, staring at phone-Emma's bright smile, Killian's chest seemed to cave in on itself in fear.

He was the danger now. Again.

And there was nothing he wouldn't do to go back to twelve hours ago when he wasn't. Twelve hours ago, he'd been passing the time, barely paying attention to his own success at darts while his mind turned their conversation from the night before over and over.

_I can't lose you too_.

And then she'd been there, so unsure and yet somehow still so determined, with a fight in her – for _herself_, for _them_ and their time together – that he'd never seen before.

Honestly, it had taken all his restraint not to plead with her just to spend the whole afternoon with him at Granny's as well, date protocol be damned. They could have had coffee, and he could have amended for the time he didn't tell her how much he liked her playful, self-satisfied giggle when she hid his hook from him with her magic. He could kiss the cinnamon off her lips and maybe, just maybe no one would barge in on them for once.

But when he'd seen her tonight, hair swept high, and that _damn_ dress – he was glad he'd restrained himself.

_Be patient_.

She hadn't even noticed when he handed her the rose, her eyes shining across the space between them, drinking him in, holding his gaze (and his heart and his devotion and his future but it hadn't been the right time to tell her all that…). As soon as she'd made the quip – "What do I call you now, Captain Hand?" – he'd known he never needed to do this for her. She (impossibly, bafflingly, absurdly) had always taken him just as he was.

From the dark horizon, a ship's horn blew, low and deep across the water, shuddering through Killian's frame and causing him to raise his head from where it had come to rest on the bench. His phone's screen read 3:42 AM and his flask, finally, was empty.


End file.
